


Secret Ingredient

by leftfoottrapped (miikkaa_xx)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-10 06:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17421071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miikkaa_xx/pseuds/leftfoottrapped
Summary: Chen insists on cooking for his chef boyfriend, even though he's sort of terrible at it.





	Secret Ingredient

**Author's Note:**

> Written for prompt #173. I hope this is what OP wanted, and much thanks to K and J for cheering me on.

-

Yixing has been overworking again.

Jongdae has half a mind to burn the restaurant down. He doesn’t, because he’s a good boyfriend. Instead, he waits up until close to three in the morning on a Friday night until Yixing comes home, stifling a yawn behind his hand.

‘Chen-ah?’ Yixing asks, because Jongdae is usually asleep by the time the restaurant staff clear out at night. He must remember it’s the weekend because he nods, smiles, as he takes off his jacket and shoes. ‘I brought leftovers.’

Jongdae huffs and takes the bag full of containers, unpacking them on the kitchen counter. ‘I made dinner.’

‘Is it ramyun again?’ Yixing asks, but he’s smiling, and Jongdae knows it’s a tease.

He rises to the bait anyway. ‘I _can_ cook, y’know, mister head chef.’

‘Head chef in training,’ corrects Yixing gently, as if that’s any excuse for the sheer amount of unpaid hours he puts in at the restaurant. Jongdae _should_ burn the place down.

‘On Monday, I’ll cook. All homemade meals,’ declares Jongdae. Mondays are Yixing’s only day off, and Jongdae can fake a cough to play hooky from work. It’s fine.

‘Breakfast, lunch, and dinner of your home cooking?’ Yixing says as he shuffles over to help Jongdae pack away the food. He opens the fridge and laughs at Jongdae’s earlier leftover takeout container sitting front and center on the top shelf. ‘What _can_ you cook, Chenchen?’

‘Gege!’ Jongdae whines, before going quiet.

It takes a few moments for Yixing to organize all the restaurant food in their fridge and Yixing looks up at him afterwards, curious at the silence. ‘Chen-ah?’

‘Microwave popcorn,’ he mumbles, feeling his ears burn.

Immediately, Yixing bursts out laughing, slumping up against the open fridge door. ‘ _Zhongda_.’

Jongdae pushes Yixing off the door and slams it shut. Hustles Yixing down the hall to their bedroom instead. ‘Shut up, I’ll figure out, you’re not even _awake enough_ for this conversation.’

  
  


Yixing overworks himself on Saturday and Sunday. The first day is Jongdae cleaning the apartment and visits his mom. On Sunday, he goes grocery shopping with Minseok, who blandly advises him through each purchase. Afterwards, he says, ‘Xing-ah likes simple things.’

Jongdae nods. ‘I know.’

Minseok looks at him, a beat too long. ‘Okay.’

  
  


Yixing’s hands are cold when he slips into bed at two in the morning. Jongdae wakes just long enough to curl around him, welcome him home.

  
  


Jongdae’s alarm goes off. He calls in sick on his phone on his way to the kitchen. Then he calls his mom, listens as she laughs and patiently talks him through using the rice cooker.

‘I’ve told you all this a dozen times before, Jongdae-ah,’ she tells him. ‘Yixing-ah has spoiled you.’

‘I just want to get this right,’ Jongdae whines. He hangs up, makes himself breakfast, eats it. Yixing would wake up late anyway.

Prepping for lunch is straightforward. Chop vegetables, cook meat, boil noodles. His mother gave him enough side dishes for him to not worry about making his own kimchi and namul. Pajeon was best served fresh though; he’d make that.

His mom tells him japchae is impossible to screw up. Jongdae goes slow, and considering he’s alone and the speakers on the fridge is playing soft ballads, it’s hard to feel too stressed.

Still, it takes an embarrassingly long time to make his dish. Everything is one at a time - nothing like professional chefs who can use all the burners on the stove at the same time, nothing like the way Yixing does it - with comfort and flair and a reassurance of ‘just keep tasting it until it’s good’.

Yixing is too tired to cook when he comes home; Jongdae will take care of him.

It’s just past noon when Yixing comes out of the bedroom, a toothbrush in his mouth, his hair still mussed.

‘You made lunch,’ he says around the toothbrush.

‘Breakfast for you,’ says Jongdae.

‘Smells wonderful,’ says Yixing, sincere.

Jongdae can feel himself flush. ‘Go rinse your mouth.’

Obeisant, Yixing ambles away. Jongdae rescues his misshapen pajeon from the frying pan and tries to cut it neatly to serve. Culinary genius was in taste _and_ presentation after all.

He sets the table while Yixing washes his face. It’s reminiscent of his own family meals, with his mother and father and brother - and an anxiety sets in suddenly. He didn’t think this through. Yixing wasn’t Korean. Jongdae, in his greed, wanted to show him how _he_ ate, not how Yixing would have - back in Changsha, with his grandparents. He should’ve at least made _one_ Changsha-specific dish for him.

Yixing comes back, looking better rested, but not by much. The long days at the restaurant has left bruises under his eyes and his cheeks a little sunken. Ironic, since he’s _surrounded_ by food most of the time. Stress, thinks Jongdae as he reaches out, breathing deep when Yixing understands and takes his hand, pulls him into a hug.

‘Thank you,’ says Yixing, his voice so soft, vibrating down Jongdae’s spine with warmth. ‘This looks amazing.’

‘It only took me like three hours,’ says Jongdae, pressing his face into the curve of Yixing’s neck, holding tighter to Yixing’s waist when Yixing shivers from Jongdae’s lashes tickling his skin.

‘You could ask me for help.’

‘Never.’

‘My stubborn Chenchen,’ laughs Yixing, pulling away to sit at the table.

There are five side-dishes, water, juice, and the main entree of japchae still steaming in a large bowl, ready to scooped into the respective serving bowls. Yixing waits until Jongdae sits down too before he picks up his chopsticks, starts to pick at his fill. ‘Did you know this is a five cheop style table setting,’ says Yixing.

‘Shut up,’ says Jongdae.

Yixing laughs. ‘If you really loved me, you would do me the honours of a twelve cheop set. For royalty.’

‘Do twelve side-dishes even _exist_.’

‘Our restaurant only serves eight, with minor variations.’

‘See?’

‘I see you’ve also used chili flakes in the pajeon - ’

‘Xing-ge, _please_.’

Yixing grins, bright and happy. ‘It’s your mom’s recipe, isn’t it?’

Jongdae stuffs his mouth full of noodle and glares. Yixing props his chin in his hand and meets his gaze, his eyes soft, a smear of gochujang at the corner of his mouth. Jongdae reaches over to wipe it with his thumb.

‘Sorry,’ he says quietly.

‘For the delicious meal?’

‘For making it _my_ meal,’ says Jongdae. ‘Also for not having a grill in our apartment - there’s a severe lack of meat here.’

‘You could have ordered and lied.’

‘I already cheated,’ admits Jongdae, pointing to the side-dishes his mom had made. Yixing nods - but Jongdae knows that he already knew. ‘Don’t look so happy.’

‘My Chenchen got up early and spent three hours trying to feed me,’ sing-songs Yixing. He’s teasing, and it’s working, but Jongdae doesn’t need praise when his effort was short-sighted at best. He didn’t deserve it.

‘Dinner will be better,’ he promises, even if his previous plans have fallen out. He couldn’t do _more_ homemade dishes that _he_ knew. This was about taking care of _Yixing_ \- not showing off Jongdae’s childhood nostalgia.

‘May I help?’

‘Hell no.’

Yixing’s pretty bottom lip juts out in a pout. Jongdae refuses to be swayed. ‘You’re going to - do whatever. Relax. Go on a walk. Play your Casio in the guest room.’

‘But it won’t sound as good without you there with me,’ says Yixing, his voice picking up an edge of a whine that is far too reminiscent of Jongdae’s own.

‘I have to _cook_.’

‘I can help.’

‘Shut up.’

Yixing knows better than to go against Jongdae’s stubbornness at this point. He relents, finishes his meal. It tastes _good_ \- which is what matters, but it’s… for Jongdae, and Jongdae can feel the shame of his self-centredness welling up in his chest. After they’ve eaten their fill, Jongdae allows for Yixing to help with clean up. Yixing says washing dishes is soothing, so Jongdae focuses on packing up leftovers and wiping down the table.

Fine. Dinner. Changsha-style. Okay. Jongdae gets his laptop and parks himself on the living room couch. Yixing wanders from room to room before settling in the guest bedroom with his keyboard. He closes the door and Jongdae can hear the frail opening notes of Yixing beginning to play.

‘I need to get so much meat and so many chilis.’ Jongdae drags his hands over his face then steels himself. Fine. _Fine_. He gets dressed, leaves, and hopes.

  
  


The thing about being cute and petite is that old ladies at the markets will help you with anything. Jongdae takes advantage.

  
  


Yixing is having a full-blown concert session to himself by the time Jongdae comes back, two hours later. Jongdae wonders if Yixing can be both a genius cook and a genius musician at the same time - figures if anyone is going to be some sort of reincarnated ancient scholar of the arts, it’d be his overworked boyfriend.

Setting his laptop on the kitchen counter, Jongdae finds a recipe and begins.

  
  


An hour and a half later, Yixing wanders into the kitchen to Jongdae mid-meltdown.

‘Are you okay?’

‘ _Fine_ , it’s all _fine_ ,’ snaps Jongdae, hunched over the counter, staring down at cubed pieces of chicken and a pile of chilies - some cut and some dried.

‘Is that… laziji,’ says Yixing slowly.

‘Yes.’

‘Are you - trying to make it?’

‘I didn’t think this through,’ says Jongdae, voice tight. The dish _had_ looked deceptively easy, but the precision of the spices and timing were already trying him. He had already scrapped the first burnt batch of chilies and the smell of smoke lingered, clearly strong enough to lure Yixing out of the guest bedroom.

‘That’s - it’s very,’ Yixing stops and starts up again. ‘I’m going to come into the kitchen now.’

Jongdae stares at the chilies until his eyes water. He feels the warmth of Yixing coming up behind him, wrapping his arms around Jongdae’s waist, propping his chin onto Jongdae’s shoulder. ‘Chen-ah.’

‘Yixing-ge,’ says Jongdae, refusing to relax into the hold. ‘I need to start the catfish.’

‘Chen-ah,’ repeats Yixing, and his voice is softer now. The long line of his front is pressed along Jongdae’s spine. He smells like fresh laundry and his deodorant - sweet, undercut by spice. Jongdae recognizes it as home.

‘I need to make the rest of dinner.’

‘I can help you.’

‘ _Stop_.’ Jongdae snaps, then locks his jaw shut. Swallows. Regains composure. ‘I said I would make this, and I _will_.’

A breath, a sigh. Yixing’s tone, so careful: ‘Zhongda, what’s wrong?’

Jongdae’s eyes burn. He squeezes them shut. ‘This is for you. This is so _you_ don’t have to worry about things.’

‘Okay,’ he says and waits.

The expectant silence is somehow worse than had Yixing tried to argue with him. The patience of it. The _understanding_.

‘Can you - cook the laziji spices, so I can focus on the catfish?’

‘I would love to,’ says Yixing as he moves towards the cabinet with the other cutting boards. He sets himself up on the kitchen counter next to Jongdae and ducks out for a few minutes. Jongdae tries to keep it out of mind until he hears the wireless speakers on top of the fridge turn on and start on a playlist Jongdae doesn’t recognize.

‘I put this one together while you were out,’ says Yixing as explanation when he walks back into the kitchen. ‘It’s our cooking playlist now.’

Jongdae stares at him for a moment, absolute wonderment flooding through his system, erasing his anxiety for a moment so all he can focus on is Yixing’s grin like he got away with something.

‘You’re so sneaky,’ says Jongdae after a beat, biting back his laughter when Yixing’s face scrunches up in a pleased expression.

The knot in his chest loosens. He’s allowed to enjoy this. He’s _allowed_.

Yixing takes charged of the laziji with an easy comfort that comes with years and years of experience. A slow warm R&B ballad plays from the speakers and Jongdae catches himself humming under his breath as he fries the catfish in the pan. Their kitchen has always been well-stocked but it isn’t until now that Jongdae notices how nice it is that it’s being used, that it smells - _good_.

‘I liked lunch,’ says Yixing. ‘Tell me about it.’

Jongdae rescues the catfish before it burns and starts to mix the seasonings in a bowl. He thinks of train rides through the countryside and his grandmother’s cooking and how she made sure Jongdae’s father and elder brother got first choice of the meat cuts. He thinks of the curve of his mother’s hands as she set the table with her side dishes, her instructions for Jongdae to scoop warm rice into bowls as the men came in from the other room to eat.

‘Tell _me_ about it,’ says Jongdae instead. ‘About Changsha.’ The seasonings are mixing and heating up. The song has switched to something more upbeat - but it’s not enough to disrupt the easy silence that Yixing carries with him as he works.

‘Peaches in Kaihui,’ he starts. ‘You can smell them when the wind blows westward during the summer. I’d walk down the road when school was out to pick some for my grandparents.’

First, _keep telling me_ ; then, _I didn’t get any peaches for him_. Jongdae swallows down his own self-critique and focuses. This was important.

‘You already know why I want to become a chef, Chen-ah,’ says Yixing, as a shortcut for skipping over the worst parts: that Yixing was poor, that Yixing’s grandparents could not make the best meals when they only ever had a few ingredients, that Yixing is devotedly filial and wanted to give them tastes that they could never have experienced otherwise. ‘But I liked the spicy soup best. We’d even eat some in the summer and sweat and sweat, and that’s when the peaches tasted best.’

‘Like having a drink?’ Jongdae hazards.

‘Yes!’ Yixing laughs then - matching the music. He rocks back on his heels as he gathers the chopped chilis and the rest of the ingredients for the laziji. ‘But it always needed the soup first.’

‘I’m going to be done over here,’ says Jongdae, putting his catfish and sauce into the pan and lowering the heat. The lid went over top as the recipe called to let it simmer for the next ten minutes. Immediately, Jongdae shifts into clean-up mode so he won’t hover over the pan.

Yixing goes to work himself. Jongdae finds himself caught up in the scene: Yixing’s hands moving quick and easy with the oil and the spices, using long chopsticks to stir the chilis without fear of being splashed with hot oil, and humming to the next song as he doesn’t even need to look at the recipe to know when to add the diced chicken and even when the pieces are perfectly seared.

‘You’re ridiculous,’ he murmurs under his breath, can’t help the exasperated smile on his face when Yixing catches him staring and grins widely.

‘It’s all about feeling,’ says Yixing sagely while manically pan-frying the garlic and ginger now. ‘The secret ingredient is love.’

‘Shut up,’ snorts Jongdae, snapping the hand towel against Yixing’s ass and turning back to the sink.

‘You used a mother’s recipe for the catfish,’ says Yixing. ‘It’s going to be delicious.’

Jongdae’s glad for the excuse to wash dishes when he feels his face start to burn in embarrassment.

It takes a bit of time for Yixing to be done and for Jongdae to set the table. Leftovers from lunch are also placed on the table, as well as fresh rice warm from the rice cooker. To drink, Yixing fishes out the rice wine that the restaurant gifted him for lunar new year’s - still unopened. Jongdae prefers beer; Yixing doesn’t want to spend his day off hungover.

When they sit down to eat, Jongdae breathes a little easier. The food smells delicious and there’s even alcohol, and the leftovers from Jongdae’s lunch are there too. It’s them, it’s home.

‘Thank you,’ says Yixing as he serves them both, still swaying to the music that drifts out from the kitchen. ‘It’s going to be amazing.’

‘Take a bite first,’ scolds Jongdae, hearing his own mother in his voice.

Finally, Yixing sits and eats. Sipping the wine from his glass, Jongdae pretends he’s not staring unblinking at Yixing while Yixing chews on a bite of catfish. The rush of relief at hearing Yixing’s soft hum of pleasure is enough to make Jongdae start coughing on the wine, which in turn has Yixing staring at _him_.

He can hear Minseok’s voice in his head now: _You’ve never been subtle, Chennie_. Jongdae grimaces.

‘It’s _good_ ,’ reassures Yixing, picking up a piece of the chicken from the laziji and popping it in his mouth. ‘Nice level of spicy too. Could be more, if you _really_ want the Hunan taste.’

He’s teasing, but Jongdae shakes his head in muted horror. After that, the conversation starts to ease off the food and onto how Yixing spent his day off. It’s soft and mundane, has all the familiarity from _before_ \- before Yixing started pulling late nights, before Yixing started overworking, before Yixing justified his exhaustion with some nebulous end goal. Before…

They’ll have to talk about it - eventually. Jongdae can feel that moment coming soon enough, after the dishes have been cleared and Yixing insists on cleaning the kitchen. Jongdae used to think he was the anal one when it came to cleaning, but Yixing refuses to budge unless the kitchen has been perfectly reset every night before bed: dishes put away and counters wiped and appliances free of burnt crumbs.

It’s one of his many particularities, and Jongdae can indulge it if it means Yixing is relaxed when he flops into bed, ready to snatch up his scant hours of sleep before another day.

For now, Yixing is hovering over the catfish and insisting Jongdae eat the head while Jongdae stares at him.

‘It’s for the honoured guest,’ says Yixing patiently, scooping the soup sauce along with the head into Jongdae’s bowl.

‘Why am I - ’ Jongdae starts, face scrunching up in confusion. ‘ _You’re_ the guest. This is for _you_ \- you suck at this, Xing-ge.’

Yixing’s bottom lip juts out even as he doesn’t stop filling up Jongdae’s bowl. ‘This is _my_ meal, and I get to decide who gets what.’

‘Xing-ge.’

‘Chenchen,’ trills Yixing, more than happy to ignore Jongdae’s protests. He refills Jongdae’s bowl of rice too. ‘Eat up.’

‘I’m trying to make this special for you,’ Jongdae argues even as he takes a sip of the soup, feeling the spice linger on his tongue.

‘I’m going to talk about this meal forever,’ he replies.

The sincerity has Jongdae duck his head, eat his rice. ‘I’m… glad you like it.’

‘I love it.’ Yixing looks up at him, with his still ruffled hair, dressed down in a tanktop and sweats, the long-running fatigue leaving gentle bruises under his eyes. ‘I love you.’

Jongdae has to grit his teeth to not flee, to face this flood of affection head on even as it tightens around his throat, keeps him from speaking for a few long seconds. ‘I love you too. I want you to take care of yourself. I want to help you.’

‘I know,’ says Yixing sweetly, softly. ‘I’m not making it easy for you, am I?’

The conversation is here already, heavy and important. Jongdae nods. ‘Let me help.’

Suddenly, Yixing’s easiness twists into a grimace, has him frowning down at his food. ‘I don’t know how. I wish I did. I don’t - I don’t want to do this either, Chen-ah.’

Just like that - the admission to the irrationality, the unfairness of it all… has Jongdae able to breathe again. ‘We can figure it out.’

Yixing looks up. ‘You think so?’

Jongdae has never wanted to kiss him so bad. ‘Yes. I - don’t really know how either, but I’m on your side. You know that.’

‘Of course.’ Suddenly, Yixing laughs. ‘Did you do all this to convince me you care?’

Jongdae resists stuffing his mouth with another bite of food. ‘It worked,’ he says defensively.

‘You do take care of me already, Chen-ah.’ The edges of Yixing’s expression goes soft with affection. ‘Who else is going to make sure the house is clean everyday? And everything in our bathroom is restocked and our two plants are still alive?’ He laughs then, but it’s not mocking. ‘Who else is going to have a meltdown in the kitchen cause he can’t cook Hunan cuisine?’ Yixing props his chin in his hand, gazes warmly over the table to Jongdae. ‘How could I ask for more?’

‘You’re an idiot,’ says Jongdae reflexively, pretty sure his face is going to melt off from his blushing. ‘Fine. Die then.’

‘Chenchen!’

‘Either tell your boss you want to be home before two in the morning or die.’ Jongdae shoves a hunk of catfish head into his mouth. Chews it obstinately.

‘Okay.’

For a moment, Jongdae’s pretty sure he’s misheard. He blinks, once, twice. ‘Okay?’ He asks even through the mouthful of food.

‘Okay,’ repeats Yixing. ‘That’s easy enough. I’ll start with that.’

Again, Minseok’s voice in his head, echoing loudly with the undercurrent of ‘I told you so’: _he likes simple things_.

Jongdae hates everyone and everything, especially now when his eyes start to burn and he needs _something_ to cover it up because god damn it, Yixing - ‘Yah! It’s spicy! Why is it so spicy!’

Yixing just grins.

-

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!


End file.
